


Dolor Ibi Est

by electricalgwen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: ohsam, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1936299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricalgwen/pseuds/electricalgwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: <i>They are in full throttle research mode when Sam manages to drop a dictionary on his foot. A seriously heavy dictionary -- say the Oxford Latin Dictionary, since it's not online. A lot of swearing from Sam, a lot of mocking from Dean, till Dean realizes that the foot actually is broken. Pretty nastily broken, as it turns out. Followed by a trip to the ER and a few weeks of Sam on crutches, with Dean alternately being helpful and telling every witness they interview a new, embarrassing, and completely fictitious story about how Sam broke his foot. Finally Dean's moronic how-could-anyone-hurt-themselves-with-a-book brother has to do some seriously kickass stuff on nasty terrain, broken foot and all, getting them out of a tight spot, and there is sarcastic, concerned, bantery bonding.…</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dolor Ibi Est

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually produce h/c. I don't usually produce gen. But I thought this prompt that [](http://de-nugis.livejournal.com/profile)[**de_nugis**](http://de-nugis.livejournal.com/) asked for in the [](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/profile)[**ohsam**](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/) hurt/comfort challenge was delightful, and I attempted to do it justice. I hadn't expect it to expand into ~8500 words! Even at that, there's probably less hurt and/or comfort than might be expected for an h/c challenge, but I hope it's acceptable. Many thanks to [](http://dancetomato.livejournal.com/profile)[**dancetomato**](http://dancetomato.livejournal.com/) for last-minute beta-reading.

 

The worst part is, it turned out to be a teenage girl vengeance spell gone wrong, and not a demon at all. Which meant that they hadn’t needed the invocation of Macarius, which meant that Sam didn’t need to spend all that time on a translation of the Accalia Codex. Which meant that he didn’t need to be juggling the Oxford Latin Dictionary while trying to figure out if _induco_ took the dative or accusative case, at the exact moment Dean inadvertently sat on the volume button for the TV.

In other words, Sam dropping a large, heavy dictionary directly on top of his foot was completely pointless and accomplished nothing except annoying the shit out of Dean for the next few days. Sam complained about having to hike around the lake looking for blue vervain to reverse the spell, he bitched about taking the stairs to their second-floor room, and he made pained noises when Dean made him carry his own damn laundry. He even griped about the occasional bumps on the highway jarring his foot, until Dean drowned him out by cranking the tapedeck volume.

Dean puts up with it for a while, but he figures it’s getting ridiculous when he offers to let Sam drive to the graveyard where their latest spirit’s bones are buried, and Sam turns the opportunity down.

“I told you,” Sam says. “It hurts to put pressure on the foot. I can’t work the pedals.”

“Jesus Christ, Sammy,” Dean says, throwing up his hands. “I’ve had way worse than this. _You’ve_ had way worse than this.”

“It _hurts,_ Dean.”

“It’s a broken toe!” Dean huffs in exasperation. “It hurts, suck it up and move on. We didn’t give up looking for Dad when you broke your arm.”

“I had a cast on that. It helped stabilize it.”

“Broken toes don’t need casts. The fact you don’t need a cast should tell you something. Like, that it’s perfectly stable.”

“Your big toe is crucial for walking balance,” Sam informs him, bitchface to the fore. “I can’t run. I can’t feel the pedals properly. And it hurts.”

Dean would be more sympathetic if it weren’t for Sam’s massively overdone pout. And eyebrows. Even his _hair_ is getting into the act, flouncing and sulking and generally giving off an air of annoyed helplessness.

“Whaddaya think Advil’s for?” he says, tossing the bottle over. “Get some into you and come on. Those bones aren’t gonna burn themselves.”

He ends up doing all the work anyway. Sam can’t carry the gas can while limping without bashing his shin on it every other step, which of course leads to more complaints. And forget digging: Sam can’t use the bad foot to push the shovel blade down, but he can’t balance on it either.

All Sam can do is pour the gasoline and light the match, which sucks because those are Dean’s favorite parts.

“I need food,” Dean says, throwing the gear in the trunk. “All that digging. By myself. You can have a mineral water or something.”

His mood isn’t improved when Sam limps into the all-night diner and their waitress spends the next half-hour fussing over him, offering herself to lean on when he gets up to hobble to the restroom, and constantly refilling his coffee while more-or-less ignoring Dean.

“You done?”

“Yeah.”

Dean stretches out his legs under the table and accidentally brushes against Sam’s sneaker.

“Ow!” Sam yelps, and knocks over his last, undrunk, very hot refill, which promptly floods into Dean’s lap.

The really annoying thing is that later, back at the motel, Sam won’t admit he’s being completely unreasonable, dismissing the severity of Dean’s injury.

“Scalded _balls,_ ” Dean says. “Dude.”

“You’re fine,” Sam says grumpily. “And it’s not like I meant to. Keep your feet to yourself next time.”

“I barely touched you.”

“Yeah. I know.” Sam sighs and pushes back his hair. “It fucking _hurts,_ okay? It’s not getting any better. It even hurts to get my boots on now. It hurts when I’m not doing _anything._ ”

“Jeez, all right,” Dean says, pulling his chair around in front of Sam’s and straddling it. “Let’s see it.”

Sam’s boot is loose; he’s hardly cinched up the laces, and he’s got his fuzziest socks on. He still flinches when Dean yanks the boot off.

Dean peels back the sock and is taken aback. Sam’s big toe actually looks pretty normal –freakishly long, but mostly undamaged. The base of the toe and top of his foot, however, are swollen and impressively bruised.

“Huh,” Dean says. “Guess we should get that looked at.”

 

 

 

“You’ve probably heard, if you can walk on it, it’s not broken,” Dr. Jones says. She leans over the computer and clicks a few times, pulling up Sam’s x-ray.

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, snapping his gaze up and away from her ass as she looks over her shoulder, gesturing to Sam to look at the screen.

“Unfortunately, it’s not true.” She points to a long bone on the edge of the foot – Sam’s foot. “There’s a fracture, here, in the first metatarsal. It’s not displaced, so it won’t need surgery, but you’ll have to give it some rest.”

“It’s not all that easy for me to take time off work,” Sam says, and Dean makes an incredulous face at him, because really? Their job’s pretty damn flexible. “How much rest are we talking about?”

“At least four weeks non-weight-bearing,” Dr. Jones says. “You should stay lying down and keep the foot up as much as possible for the next few days, but after that you can get up with crutches.”

Sam’s face falls.

“I’m going to cast it,” she says, straightening up. “It’ll give a little extra stability. But you’re a big guy, and that area of the foot takes most of your body weight when walking. You’ll need to stay off it.”

She heads over to the supply shelf on the far side of the room and starts gathering rolls of bandages and fiberglass tape.

Dean sighs. “Only you, Sammy.”

Sam pouts. “And you didn’t believe me.”

Dr. Jones comes back and dumps a pile of supplies on the floor. “I’m going to get a basin and some water, and we’ll get started. You’d better get your pants off.”

“I’m sorry?” Sam splutters.

“Jeans aren’t going to fit over the cast. You have to take them off now, or else you’ll have to cut them off.” She hands him a hospital shirt. “While the cast is on, you’ll have to stick to softer materials, like sweat pants. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Damn it,” Sam grumbles, unbuttoning his jeans. “How am I gonna get back to the motel?”

“Hey, at least you didn’t go commando,” Dean says cheerfully.

“I’m not walking around in my _underwear._ ”

“No, you’re gonna be on crutches in your underwear.”

“You could be a little more sympathetic.”

“I brought you to the hospital, didn’t I?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah. You were so keen to do that.”

Dean relents. “Don’t worry. Pretty sure there’s a spare pair in the trunk.”

“Ready?” Dr. Jones peeks round the door. “Great.”

Dean watches her wrap the foot in felt, then soak the fiberglass bandages in the water and wind them around Sam’s foot and ankle. His toes stick out the end.

“Too bad you didn’t have hot pink.”

“I like the lime green,” Dr. Jones says, “but we’re all out. Sorry.”

“I don’t care about the color.” Sam smiles at her. “Thanks. It feels better already.” He wiggles his toes. “I didn’t think I’d managed to actually break it.”

“It’s an unusual spot. Fractures of the first metatarsal are infrequent.” Dr. Jones smoothes the last end of fiberglass into place. “How did you do it, anyway?”

She sits back on her heels, looking up at Sam from between his feet, hands still smoothing back and forth over his ankle and instep. It’s not like he could feel anything through the cast, but Dean’ll bet his little brother’s blushing anyway. Always had an overgrown sense of propriety.

He grins wide and rests a hand between Sam’s shoulder blades. “Got his foot caught between the bars. It was one of those real heavy, old iron bedframes, y’know? Great for tying things to, but I guess I shoulda used slipknots.”

Sam chokes. He’s blushing for sure now; the back of his neck is scarlet.

“Uh,” says Dr. Jones, “I see,” and she’s blushing too, but she’s also eyeing Dean with new respect and a tiny smile dances around the corner of her mouth as she fills out a prescription and instructs Sam on the proper use of crutches.

“Don’t take any weight on it for at least four weeks,” she reminds him, and casts a stern glance at Dean. _“Any.”_

 

 

 

The first week’s not so bad. Vacation always feels like a guilty pleasure, days stolen a few at a time from the evil of the world. Being ordered to take time off to lie around, watch some TV, or read a non-research-related book, sounds great.

Dean usually forgets how fucking bored he gets on vacation, until the next one comes around.

“We can still work a case,” Sam says halfway into the second week, after Dean’s cleaned and reassembled every firearm they own and chucked the remote across the room after clicking through the entire round of TV channels at least twice. “I’ll stick to research and interviews, leave the heavy lifting to you.”

“Stick to research?” Dean snorts. “That was the problem in the first place. Nobody but you, Sam, could injure themselves with a book.”

“It was your fault,” Sam mutters. “You startled me.”

“You’re a _hunter,_ Sam. If you injured yourself every time something went boo at you… oh, wait.”

“Ha ha.” Sam’s crutches are propped on the arm of his chair; he retrieves one and tries to poke Dean in the stomach with it. Dean dodges easily.

“Seriously,” Sam says. “Before we’re reduced to playing I Spy.”

“You got a case in mind?”

Sam shakes his head. “I haven’t seen anything in the local news that looks like our kind of stuff. We could call Bobby. See if there’s anything that’s mostly library work.”

“You realize you’ll have to tell him what happened.”

“So?”

Dean shrugs. “Right, I guess he already knows you’re a nerd _and_ a klutz.”

 

 

 

“Hey Bobby,” Dean says, hitting speakerphone. “How’s everything?”

“Fine,” Bobby says guardedly. “Things okay with you boys?”

“I’m fine. Sam got hurt on that hunt in Danville, though.”

“The vengeance demon?” Bobby sounds concerned. “What’d she do to him?”

“Nothing. Wasn’t a demon after all, just a hormonal teenager.”

“Huh.” There’s a pause. “So what happened to Sam?”

“See, there was this midget…”

“Dean!” Sam breaks in. “Sorry, Bobby. His sense of humor suffered terminal injury years ago. I dropped a book on my foot and it broke. My foot, I mean.”

“Must have been a damn heavy book.”

“The Oxford Latin Dictionary,” Sam admits.

“The Oxford?” Bobby’s snort maxes out the speaker. “Why d’you use that? Try Lewis and Short, it’s available online.”

Sam blinks at the phone for a moment. Dean smirks.

“It’s better for medieval and religious Latin, too,” Bobby adds. “I find it works real good for demons.”

“…Okay,” Sam says. Dean laughs; Sam presses his lips together and widens his eyes in annoyance.

“So,” Dean says. “Sam’s on crutches, which kinda limits the things we can take on, but he’s going stir-crazy. Got anything sounds like it might be suitable?”

“Might do.” There are some rustling noises. “Heard of a couple of things not too far from where you are. One of ‘em sounds like it might take a bunch of research, not too much running around.”

Through the phone, they can hear another phone ringing.

“Damn,” Bobby says, “I better get that. I’ll call you back with the details.”

 

 

 

Alan Mitchell had worked construction for years. He’d been a foreman for the last decade but still spent a fair bit of time on the job sites; it wasn’t like he’d forgotten how to walk on scaffolding. There’d been no rain, no fog, no broken boards to account for his five-story fall.

Just a freak gust of wind, apparently, that picked him up and threw him off the half-completed building to splatter on the concrete, only a few yards from his team below.

The local news talked about bizarre weather phenomena, and blamed global warming.

Two weeks later, on a bright, sunny Saturday, Debbie Waller was weeding the front flowerbed when her husband Bill, who’d climbed up on their roof to fix a few loose shingles, plummeted past her and fractured his skull on the driveway.

“He was always so careful,” she was quoted as saying. “I just can’t understand it.”

In the following month, two more fatal falls occurred at construction sites around the city, and Alan Mitchell’s cousin apparently jumped off a bridge despite having a happy family, a good job, excellent health, and no depressive tendencies.

“Global warming, my ass,” Dean says, stirring his coffee.

“It’s a real phenomenon!” Sam glares. “Don’t tell me you believe that pseudo-science crap the oil industry keeps promoting.”

“Not my point,” Dean says, “don’t get your panties in a bunch. Global warming may exist, fine, but it didn’t knock those guys off a roof. Or push Mikey off a bridge.”

“It all traces back to Alan Mitchell,” Sam muses, refolding the newspaper. “Bill Waller worked for Alan’s construction company, doing advertising. The same company’s also in charge of the projects at the other two sites that had accidents.”

“And Mike’s his cousin.” Dean frowns. “Why go after his family?”

Sam looks askance at Dean. “Lots of ghosts go after family, Dean.”

“Yeah, but they don’t often mix motives.” Dean turns the laptop towards him. “Was Mike involved with the construction company at all?”

“Hey. Yeah.” Sam takes it from him and tabs through some pages. “Not directly. But his accounting firm did their books.”

“He’s taking out people connected with the company,” Dean says. “He died on the job and he’s pissed about it.”

Sam chews his lip thoughtfully. “Could be.”

“He’s the only link between everybody.” Dean stands. “I’m gonna go interview the wife.”

“I’m coming too.”

“Police detectives don’t wear sweat pants, Sam.”

“I can get my suit pants on over it.”

Dean sighs. “Let’s hope you get the sympathy vote.”

 

 

 

He does.

Mrs. Mitchell is initially somewhat suspicious, and questions them as to why the police are making further inquiries into a case that was already ruled to be an unfortunate accident. When they reassure her that this will in no way affect the life insurance payment she relaxes a little, and when Sam turns on the charm and concerned sympathy, she tells them more than they ever needed to know about Alan's work history, the accident, and the inquiry.

When Dean explains that Sam recently underwent surgery to fuse the ankle he fractured parachuting into Iraq, which never healed properly, thereby ending his brilliant military career, she almost cries.

While she’s hugging a beet-red Sam, Dean notices the urn on the bookshelf.

“Alan was cremated,” he says.

“Only after the autopsy.” Mrs. Mitchell disengages herself and frowns. “Your department knew that. They gave me permission.”

“Of course.” Sam smiles at her. “As we said, we’re more looking at the handling of the case, making sure protocol was followed and so forth. You’ve been very helpful. Thanks for your time.”

“Anything for a war hero,” she says, beaming at him again.

“That was not cool,” Sam says, as the front door shuts behind them.

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean says. “No more of that.”

“Thanks.” Sam pulls up his pant leg and scratches just above the cast. “Let’s get a motel and figure things out. Maybe Alan’s not our guy, but he’s still our only link.”

 

 

 

“Sit tight.” Dean slides out of the Impala. “Be right back.”

He isn’t. The elderly check-in lady is extremely short-sighted and takes forever to copy down Dean’s fake name and driver license number in the hand-written register, peering back and forth between it and the book and constantly losing her place.

“Now, did you want a king or two queens, Mr. Kline?” she says, glancing out the lace-curtained window.

“Two queens,” Dean says. Just then the bell over the door jangles and there’s a thud as Sam wedges his crutch into the doorframe and catches the door with his hip.

“I told you to stay in the car,” Dean huffs. “You already walked too much today.”

Sam shrugs, leaning up against the counter and propping his crutches next to him. “Thought there might be a problem.”

“No problem, dear, we have plenty of rooms. You’ll want one on the ground floor?” She leans over the counter and tuts at seeing the cast on his foot. “Dear me. What happened to you, then?”

“Metatarsal stress fractures are very common in ballet dancers,” Dean says solemnly, shaking his head. “Lots of promising careers cut short that way.”

“Ballet?” Her face lights up. “Oh! I saw Swan Lake when I was a little girl, and I did so want to be a ballerina.” She gestures down at her rounded frame and still generous bosom and shrugs. “I never had the figure for it.”

She pushes her glasses up her nose and gives Sam a closer, appraising stare. “You must look magnificent on stage.”

“Oh, he does,” Dean says, “especially in the tights,” and waggles his eyebrows at her.

Sam coughs; his ears are turning red.

She blinks at Dean, looks back at Sam, then back at Dean.

“I’m sorry, did you say you wanted a king?” she says.

“No!” Sam says, a bit too loudly.

“You sure, baby?” Dean says.

_“Yes,”_ Sam grits out.

Dean nods, lips pursed. “Probably best to have your own space for now. Don’t wanna do more damage, rolling over on you in the middle of the night or anything.”

He can barely keep the grin off his face until she turns away to run his fake credit card through a machine which is apparently connected by dial-up. Sam’s run through over half his repertoire of annoyed glares – interrupted every so often by pained smiles when she looks in their direction and apologizes for the delay – by the time it finally beeps and accepts Calvin Kline’s card.

“I hope your foot heals properly, dear,” she says. “Listen to what the doctor says.”

She hands Dean the key. “You take good care of him, now.”

“Always do,” Dean says, with a final leer.

“What is it about pretending to be a gay couple that you find so amusing?” Sam hisses as the door – helpfully held by Dean – closes behind him. “Because I don’t find it funny.”

“Shut up and go open the room, Twinkletoes,” Dean smirks, tucking the key into Sam’s jacket pocket. “I’ll bring the bags.”

Sam makes grabby hands for the laptop the minute Dean gets in the door. Dean makes a run down to the Coke machine, and by the time he gets back, Sam’s got a dozen browser windows open and is deep into the Workplace Safety Code.

“The building Alan fell off isn’t done yet. The project got shut down for a few days after the accident, and they got behind schedule.” He accepts the can Dean hands him, popping the top. “I’m thinking we should check out the site.”

“What for?” Dean takes a drink. “There’s not gonna be any EMF at this point. And none of the others died there.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam worries his lower lip. “It’s got to link to the company somehow, though. We can check out the other accident sites too, but I feel like we should start with this one.”

“You know I always respect your feelings,” Dean says, and Sam throws the pop can tab at him.

 

 

 

“Who are you?” The site foreman glowers at them.

“Morning,” Dean says, flashing photo ID. “Occupational Safety inspection. We’re here to have a look around.”

“Your company’s had some bad luck lately,” Sam adds.

The man looks pointedly at Sam’s crutches. “Uh-huh. Looks like you did too.”

Sam shrugs one shoulder. “Accidents happen.”

“Yeah,” the foreman says, “and that’s what happened to our guys. Accidents. The police, insurance guys, they’ve been all over all our sites. We got guard rails, we got slip-resistant paint, you name it, we got it. You look all you want, you won’t find any code violations.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Dean relaxes his stance, lets his body language warm and soften. “Listen. Too many accidents at a time, some number-cruncher notices. You get flagged; we get sent out to give decent guys a hard time for something they can’t control.”

He waves a hand at some of the machinery. “We gotta spend the morning, have a look around, file a report. I’m sure everything’s gonna be fine, but we have to follow procedure.”

The foreman sighs in resignation. “Yeah, I know. What a fucking waste of time.”

He gestures to the office trailer. “I’ll get you hats and we’ll do the walkaround.”

“Tell you what,” Dean says, “how ‘bout you and me do that, while Jeff here interviews some of your boys? It’ll save you some time, and he’s not much for climbing around on scaffolding at the moment.”

“No shit. Can’t believe they sent you out to a site like that.” The man frowns. “The guys are kind of busy. You sure you have to talk to them?”

“Compliance officers should consult privately with a reasonable number of employees,” Sam says, in a none too friendly voice. “Under Standard 1926.501, you’re required to provide fall protection systems. Repeated or willful violations can cost you upwards of fifty thousand in fines. So if everything’s fine here? I suggest you let your employees tell me that.”

“Calm down, buddy,” Dean says. “Man’s just trying to meet the bottom line, am I right?” He puts on his bright yellow hard hat and nods to the foreman. “Let’s go.”

“You can use the office here,” the foreman says grudgingly to Sam. “I’ll send some of the guys in.”

“Don’t bother,” Sam says. “I’ll go pick a few to talk to.”

“Suit yourself.”

Dean follows the guy out and they head for the edge of the excavation.

“Your buddy’s a real sweet guy.”

“Sorry about that.” Dean chuckles. “He’s not too bad usually. Bit of a stick up his ass, but he’s fair. He’s been hell to work with since he got hurt, though.”

“What’d he do?”

Dean chuckles. “Ever since he was a kid, he had this dream…”

When they get back to the office, after a walkaround that unsurprisingly failed to yield any citations for safety violations, even Sam can tell something’s up. The foreman’s having a hard time keeping a straight face, as they thank him for his time and leave with reassurances of a good report. Sam raises his eyebrows at Dean, who merely smirks.

“What’d you _say_ to him?” Sam hisses, as they leave.

“I explained to him why you were on crutches,” Dean says, taking a couple of extra-long strides so he’s out of Sam’s reach. “It was tragic. How you were on your honeymoon, you finally got your lifelong wish to go swimming with dolphins, and then one of them broke your foot with his flipper.”

“You…God!”

Dean laughs and slides into the driver’s seat. Sam, of course, takes far longer to balance his crutches on the side of the car, swing the door open, pick up the crutches when they fall down, pivot into the passenger seat, and throw the crutches into the back seat. Narrowly missing Dean’s head.

“Hey!”

“It’d serve you right.” Sam huffs. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“You look so darn cute when you blush.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Do you want to know what I found out, or not?”

“You got something?” Dean blinks; he hadn’t expected much from that trip. “Shoot.”

“Alan Mitchell wasn’t the first.”

“What?”

“We’ve been assuming it was Alan, because he was the first to die. Everyone else is connected with him, mostly through the company.”

“Yeah.”

“But I think Alan was the first _victim._ ” Sam stretches his arm along the back of the seat. “The guys all told me the same thing, this company toes the line with every safety regulation. They do the inspections, have all the gear. But one of the more senior guys told me why. A few years back, there was _another_ death. And that was very definitely company negligence. They were cited and warned, but they somehow got out of paying any fines. Good faith gestures or something.”

“Huh.” Dean nods. “So it is a pissed off employee. It’s not Alan, it’s the company itself that’s the connection. Did you get a name?”

“Not from him,” Sam says, “but it should be easy to find out.”

“Awesome,” Dean says. “Work your Google magic, Sammy, and I’ll go set things on fire.”

“We all have our skills.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

 

 

 

It takes Sam about ninety seconds to find the report of the accident. He spends the next ninety minutes chasing various links and hacking emails, while Dean does supply inventory.

“Neil Hartwell died when he fell off the roof of a residential home the company was building,” Sam says. “It sounds like they didn’t have adequate width scaffolding, or personal fall prevention equipment. His widow was furious when the company was let off so lightly. She wanted to sue them, but her lawyer convinced her it was too much of a risk. She claimed the site foreman routinely cut corners on safety equipment, and the company execs knew about it but didn’t want to pay the extra it would take to meet code.”

“That fits. Neil’s going after senior people, not the guys who do the grunt work.”

“She moved away after a year or so. Neil’s buried over in Maple Grove cemetery.”

Dean sighs. “Maple Grove again. One day, I’d like to work in a cemetery with an original name.”

“I was thinking,” Sam says. “The lawyer’s still here. Maybe we should go talk to him.”

“What for?”

Sam shrugs. “Make sure about this? I don’t know, there might be some information we’re missing. And it’s not like we’ve got anything else to do this afternoon, we’re not burning bones in daylight.”

“ _We’re_ not burning anything. If I have to do all the digging, I get to do the setting on fire.”

Sam laughs.

“Sure, why not,” Dean says. “Break out the lawyer talk.”

 

 

 

The lawyer is understandably reluctant to tell them much at first, citing client confidentiality. Sam explains that they completely understand, but that they’re representing another, more recent widow with similar concerns.

“I’m not asking for anything inappropriate or unprofessional, of course,” Sam says delicately. “But as I’m sure you know, these cases are difficult. One person, against a corporation. Any information you feel you can provide would be helpful, and treated in _complete_ confidence. And of course, we would reciprocate fully, should you require it.”

The lawyer looks at him for a long moment, and sighs.

“I’ll dig out the file,” he says. “There are some things that were a matter of public record. They might be of interest to you. Leave me your card, and I’ll get my secretary to fax over anything that can be shared.”

“Right,” Sam says, switching both crutches to one hand and rifling through his suit pockets. “You know, I’m so sorry, I haven’t got one on me. Here, I’ll write down the number.”

He scrawls the motel’s fax number on a piece of paper and hands it over.

“Thanks for your consideration,” he says.

“Here, I’ll get the door.” The lawyer holds it open while Sam maneuvers through. “What happened to your foot?”

“His pony stepped on it,” Dean says.

The lawyer looks at Sam and raises an eyebrow.

“It’s my daughter’s pony, actually,” Sam says through clenched teeth.

“Mine wants one,” the lawyer says. “I keep saying no.”

“Good choice.”

 

 

 

Sam comes along for the ride, but once again, it’s Dean doing all the digging.

“Keep watch.” Dean passes him the shotgun.

Neil, however, fails to make an appearance, and the bones go up in smoke uneventfully.

“Nice to have an easy one, once in a while.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, watching the dancing flames.

 

 

 

“Where next?” Sam says after check-out the next morning, slamming the trunk after Dean’s finished loading all their shit into it. “You got anything lined up?”

“Nope.” Dean slides into the driver’s seat. “Let’s get breakfast.”

They pick up a paper at the counter and read it while waiting for Dean’s bacon and eggs and Sam’s whole wheat bagel with a side of fruit.

No hints of the supernatural jump out at them. Their food takes a long time to arrive; Sam’s even read the classified ads by the time their waitress slaps the plates down on the table.

“Finally,” Dean mutters, reaching for the ketchup. He’s startled by the kick Sam delivers to his shins.

“What’s wrong?” Sam’s asking the girl, who, Dean can see now that he actually looks at her, is completely strung out and has shiny marks of dried tear tracks on her cheeks. And that’s how they learn that she’s the only one on shift this morning because her coworker’s boyfriend somehow fell off the church roof last night.

They eat in a hurry. Sam leaves a generous tip.

The check-in lady looks surprised to see Dean again. “Did you forget something, dear?”

“His foot’s still really bothering him,” Dean confides. “He’s not really up to traveling yet. Told me he was, but…” he shrugs.

She’s nodding. “Oh, I know what that’s like. My Stan, he never would admit there was anything wrong with him…” and she rambles on about Stan’s diabetes and leg ulcer for the next eight minutes and thirty-four seconds (Dean counts) while going through the register and credit card routine.

 

 

 

“So, bones not enough.” Dean watches the furrows in Sam’s forehead deepen as he thinks. “Do you suppose his wife kept something of his?”

“Does anyone born after 1950 still do that lock-of-hair shit?”

“Maybe something with his blood on it,” Sam muses. “Maybe she doesn’t even know.”

“And she’s moved.”

Sam sighs. “Great. Could be anywhere by now. I mean, we could track her down, but she probably would have gotten rid of a lot of his clothes and stuff.”

He pushes open the door to the room. The message light on the phone is blinking.

“Get that,” Dean says, toeing off his shoes and flopping onto the nearest bed.

“If it’s for you, I’m telling her you have syphilis,” Sam informs him, but he’s already got the receiver to his ear. “Huh.”

“What?” Dean says, eyes closed.

“Package for us at the desk,” Sam says. “She hadn’t expected to see us again, and forgot about it. Don’t get up or anything. I’ll just limp down and get it.”

Dean aims a lazy kick at him but misses.

He’s not overwhelmingly sleepy, could move if he had to. Still, the bed’s nice and comfy and it’s not like they know what to do next. It’s frustrating, not having leads, but something’ll show up eventually – always does – and meanwhile, might as well enjoy the downtime. He was up half the night digging, after all.

“Carpe diem,” he mutters, and lets himself drift.

The door opens. Dean’s eyes don’t. He hears Sam draw breath in, but he doesn’t say anything. There’s a creak of springs as Sam settles onto the other bed, the shuffle of fabric as he shifts around, and a slight, wincing hiss.

He sneaks a peek through his eyelashes. Sam’s got a pillow tucked under his foot; he’s pulling a stack of papers out of an oversized manila envelope and laying them around him.

Research. Excellent. Sam’ll be happy, and Dean can go on napping. He closes his eyes fully and drifts off to the familiar sounds of Sam breathing, papers rustling, and an occasional scratch of pencil.

He wakes up grudgingly, to Sam sitting on the bed beside him and shaking his elbow. “Dean. Hey, Dean.”

“Sleeping,” he mutters, shoving at Sam with his knee.

“You can sleep later,” Sam says, yanking the pillow out from under his head, and throwing it aside with a noise of disgust when he realizes Dean’s been drooling on it. “We’ve got something to burn.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, pushing himself up on one elbow and rubbing his eyes. “What’d she keep?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. “Her lawyer faxed over a bunch of stuff, including a copy of the autopsy report. Neil Hartwell landed on his head, right? His skull was smashed. Brain all over the place.”

Dean grimaces. “Yeah. So?”

“So there were some photos attached to the report. They didn’t fax all that well, but the important details were there. Look.”

Sam’s laid out various graphic pictures on the other bed. It makes a patchwork only slightly more ugly than the bedspread beneath.

“Disturbing,” Dean says. He gets up and has a look.

“See?” Sam says, leaning in beside his knee and pointing. “I went through all the shots they took of the skull. There’s a piece missing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. See – there.”

Dean nods. “Okay. So, what, you think they left it behind?”

Sam shrugs. “Probably. Picked up the body, and it looks like they cleaned up the major bits, but a little chip like that would be easily overlooked.”

“So now we get to go hunt for it. Awesome,” Dean grumbles, but he slaps Sam on the shoulder as he heads for his duffel. “Nice work, Bones.”

 

 

 

The Impala coasts to a stop by the curb and Dean eyes the large, elegant house and its impeccable grounds. A flat stone walk curves through flower beds to the steps leading up to a huge verandah, which is artfully hung with vines and home to still more flowers in pots. There’s a huge sycamore visible behind the house, and a hedge of variegated shrubs along the side property line.

“Think they’re home?”

Sam shrugs. “No car. Let’s have a look. We can be checking the electric meter or something.”

“Yeah, because they always have guys on crutches doing that,” Dean mutters, but he follows Sam’s swinging gait up the walk.

Sam pauses at the foot of the steps and looks up at the roof.

“He fell when they were still framing. The verandah wasn’t here.”

Dean sighs. “Great. It’s probably underneath it then.”

“Maybe not. Depends how far it wraps around. From the photos, I think he fell on the other side.” Sam leaves the walk and starts heading around the corner of the house. Slowly. The lawn’s been watered this morning and it’s nice and soft; Sam’s crutches keep sinking in.

“Damn it,” he grumbles, and Dean smirks.

“Can I help you?” a voice says from above him.

Dean turns – not too fast, that always looks suspicious – and gives his best smile to the woman leaning over the verandah railing. She looks to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties, and while she’s as impeccably put together as the house and garden, she’s got gardening gloves on and a copper watering can in one hand.

He shifts his smile to a slightly bashful, you-caught-me one, and spreads his hands.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We were driving by, and saw your gardens. Just couldn’t resist.” He gestures towards Sam. “My partner here was real impressed by your use of, uh…”

“Shrubs,” Sam interjects. “The alternating heights and um, leaf color.” He waves a crutch at a flowering bush halfway down the back lawn. “Is that a _Prunus_ variety?”

Dean raises a disbelieving eyebrow at Sam, as she looks back to where he’s gesturing. Sam gives a tiny shrug, widening his eyes.

“It is!” She puts down her watering can. “It’s a variant of _Padus._ I’m very fond of them. And of course, they’re so good for attracting winter birds.”

“Absolutely,” Sam says, nodding. “I use _Prunus cuthbertii_ for the same reason.”

Dean schools his expression into one of agreement rather than bewilderment, and nods.

“Sorry,” Sam says, doing the head-duck and breaking out the dimples. “I’m Jamie; this is Bruce. We do landscaping work. Garden design.”

“And like I said, we had to stop and check yours out.”

She smiles at them both. “Well! I’m flattered, I guess. Would you boys like a tour?”

“That would be wonderful, ma’am,” Sam says, and Dean makes agreeable noises.

“Caroline Ducharme,” she says, pulling off a glove and extending her hand. Dean reaches up to shake it. Sam starts maneuvering himself over, but she waves at him. “Goodness, don’t worry about the formalities. What happened?”

“I dropped a, um, paving stone on my foot,” Sam says. Dean snorts and claps him on the shoulder.

“He’s too modest to tell you the truth,” he confides to Caroline. “There was this kid, little girl, ran out in the road. Jamie was pulling her to safety and the car ran over his foot.”

Caroline gasps, mouth dropping open and eyes widening in alarm. Sam’s almost the same color as the petunias flowing out of Caroline’s pots.

“Nearly made my heart stop.” Dean presses a hand to his chest, ignoring Sam’s eyeroll. He might be overdoing it a touch, but he’s betting she’ll eat it up with a spoon.

He’s right. Caroline is hugely solicitous of Sam’s mobility as they make their way around the grounds, observing the rose walk, the shade garden, and the herb bed to the left of the kitchen door. Sam was right; the verandah doesn’t wrap all the way around.

“We’ve been here a little over three years,” she says. “Don had an architect friend of his design the house, and I planned all the gardens. This is the first year the perennial beds have really shown to advantage, and of course it will take a few more years for the dogwood. Do you need to sit down for a bit?”

“No ma’am, I’m fine.” Sam smiles as she leads them up the lawn towards the back of the house.

“And then, there’s the rock garden,” Caroline says. “I feel terrible about that. Don suggested putting it farther down the hill, but I said we should have it up against the house. It gets the sun here, you see? I really wanted some cacti, and it’s nice for the delicate species to have the shelter of the building.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Dean says.

“Yes, but we put it in early.” Caroline looks distressed. “They were bringing the stones for the chimney, and I got them to bring the rockery stones at the same time, to save delivery charges. I wasn’t going to put any plants in it, of course, until the house was finished – the workmen would have trampled all over them – but Don and I had a free weekend, so we built the rockery just to get the stones out of the way.”

She sighs. “There was an awful accident. They were putting up the last of the roof trusses and this young man fell off the scaffolding. He landed on his head. Right on the rocks. He… he died.”

Dean’s gaze shoots to the rock garden, now covered in cacti, trailing plants, and the occasional fern. Sam is looking at the roof.

“It’s a tall house,” he says, gently.

“Yes.” Caroline sighs again. “It would have been a bad fall regardless. I just…every so often I think, maybe, if he’d landed on grass. Maybe it would have been all right.”

They stand there for a few moments, Sam leaning heavily on his right crutch and giving Caroline sympathetic, supportive looks, while Dean edges closer to the rocks and peers closely at them under the guise of examining the plants.

“That’s a variegated Spineless Agave,” Caroline finally says, coming up behind him. “They’re quite rare. It took me ages to find a mail-order supplier, and it was very expensive, but it’s done nicely here.”

“Impressive,” Dean agrees, straightening up. “You’ve certainly given us lots to think about. Hasn’t she, Jamie?”

“Absolutely.” Sam takes the cue. “We won’t trespass on your time any further. I hope you don’t mind if we borrow some of your ideas on the use of raised beds. Very impressive.”

“They’re nothing special,” she says, but her cheeks pink. “Do stop in next time you’re in the area. I’d love you to see the smokebush once it gets established.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Dean says, already heading for the walk.

Sam’s crutches click on the paving stones. “I really appreciate you showing us around. Sorry about the holes in your lawn.”

Caroline laughs. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It needs aerating this week anyway. I’d have done it already, but Don got us tickets to a charity ball tonight. I’m always stiff and sore for a couple of days when I’ve done the lawn, so I thought I’d wait until after.”

Dean doesn’t need to glance at Sam; he knows they’re thinking the same thing.

“Enjoy the dancing,” he says, and winks. “Thanks again.”

She waves to them as they drive away.

 

 

 

“So you’re a horticulturalist now?” Dean says, swallowing a mouthful of mashed potato. “How the hell’d you know the name of that tree?”

“Banishing ritual,” Sam says. “Details are important. Do you have any _idea_ how many species of wild cherry there are?”

“Reminds me of this joke…”

Sam points his fork at Dean. “If it involves leading a horticulture, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Spoilsport,” Dean mutters, and goes back to his food. “What time d’you think they’re leaving?”

“The reception starts at 7.”

“Won’t be dark by then.”

“There’s dinner first. The dance doesn’t start till 9:30.”

“Great.” Dean mops up the last of the gravy with his bread roll. “Caroline sounds like she’s gonna make a night of it. Let’s hope it’s enough time to find a needle in a haystack.”

 

 

 

It isn’t.

Caroline’s not the problem. The house is largely dark; it’s easy to skirt the small pools of light cast by the lanterns along the front walk, and sneak into the back garden. Easy for Dean, anyway.

“Hurry it up, will you?” Dean whispers.

“Crutches, Dean.”

“Which is why I’m carrying the kerosene, and the shovel, _and_ the shotgun, and you’re still holding us up.”

Sam grunts.

“Just park your ass here,” Dean says, passing him a flashlight, “and look. I’ll start in that corner.”

It’s slow going, hunting through the plants and pebbles tucked in all the crevices. Twice he spots something pale in the dirt that turns out to be a fallen blossom. Once, his seeking fingers feel the sharp edges of something thin and hard, tangled up in the roots of a plant; when he pries it up, it turns out to be a piece of eggshell.

“Christ, this is gonna take forever,” he grumbles.

He doesn’t hear Sam’s response, because right about then something slams into his chest and knocks him back against the rocks.

He curses, rolls – banging an elbow painfully on something – and scrambles to his feet, staggering to maintain footing on the uneven surface. He dropped his flashlight, and it’s lodged at a weird angle between the stones, illuminating a dark flicker in the air in front of him.

It solidifies briefly into the figure of a young man, and punches him in the gut. He grabs out at it, but it’s dissipating again.

Sam’s scrabbling backwards, reaching for the shotgun. Dean heaves in air and digs in his pocket for the small saltshaker, but before he gets his hand free, the ghost appears again.

It punches him hard on the jaw. He’s off balance, one hand stuck, and he goes down.

The sharp, sickening crack of his head on stone echoes in his ears and the inside of his skull. Colored lights flash in his vision and he’s suddenly, viciously nauseous.

“Hey, man,” he gasps, holding up a placating hand. “Neil. We’re just working stiffs like you, okay? Regular guys, doing a tough job with no health insurance.”

He rolls onto hands and knees and stares at where he last saw the ghost. “It sucks, what happened to you, but you don’t need to take it out on us.”

There’s a shout from Sam, and Dean turns to look, but it feels like there’s a screwdriver poking him in the eye. Every beat of his blood pounds agonizingly through his head.

The ghost is rematerializing behind him. Dean blinks; there are two of them. He pushes his hands off the rocks, wavering on his knees, trying to stand.

There’s a loud bang that actually makes him whimper in pain, and a rush of air. Neil dissipates in Sam’s shotgun blast.

“You got injured on the job too,” he slurs to Sam. “You guys should be bonding or something.”

Sam huffs out a terse laugh. “Yeah, I’m not seeing that happening.”

He reaches out a hand to Dean. “Can you stand?”

Dean tries.

“Whoa!” Sam lets go of Dean’s hand, and fires again. “Persistent bastard.”

He looks down at Dean, who’s still working on this standing business. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The skull.”

“Skull?” Dean frowns. “Haven’t found it yet.”

“Shit,” Sam says. “I thought that’s why he started attacking. We’re never gonna find it if we have to fend him off at the same time.”

He looks down at Dean and sees Dean’s eyes widening in alarm, which is good, because Dean’s having trouble finding the words, “behind you.”

Another blast gets rid of Neil again.

“Plus the cops are gonna be here any minute, all this noise.”

Dean feels Sam sliding an arm under his. He’s hauled to his feet, and does his level best not to throw up all down Sam’s shirt.

“Stay here,” Sam says, propping Dean against the back door and handing him the shotgun. “Cover me.”

Dean watches as Sam – occasionally two Sams; his vision is wavering in and out of focus – douses the rockery in kerosene, lights a match, and sets the entire fucking thing on fire, expensive cacti and all.

The ghost materializes once again, stepping through the smoke and sparks, hate twisting its face. Dean aims, but before he pulls the trigger, the ghost itself goes up in flames.

As its last, furious shriek fades, they hear the sound of sirens.

“Let’s go,” Dean says, and pushes off the door.

Goddamn it, his knees usually work better than this.

Sam picks him up off the ground and slings him over his shoulder.

“No way, Sam,” Dean says, pounding on his back. “Put me _down!_ ”

“Sorry,” Sam says. “No time. The cops are _here._ ”

Blue and red light is flickering around the edges of the house as Sam races across the lawn to the back fence. Each pounding step jabs the screwdriver deeper into Dean’s eye.

Sam hoists him up and pushes him over the top of the fence. Dean’s got enough presence of mind to roll out of the way before Sam lands on top of him.

“Here,” Sam says, and once again there’s an arm under Dean’s shoulders.

They stagger through a few more back yards, ducking in to the shadow of a hedge once as another police car races by, and make it back to where they left the Impala.

“Gimme the keys.”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, and fishes the keys out of Dean’s pocket.

“Quit groping me.”

“Just keeping up our cover.” Sam opens the passenger door and pushes Dean down onto the seat. Dean would object more, but he’s pretty sure the Impala isn’t actually rocking up and down like a boat, so yeah, maybe he shouldn’t be driving.

The driver’s door slams shut – Dean winces again – and Sam’s starting her up, accelerating smoothly away from the curb.

They’re halfway back to the motel when Dean clues in and glances down. Sure enough, Sam’s working the pedals with his right foot.

“Hey.”

“Almost there,” Sam says.

“Your foot.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Sam shrugs. “It’s fine.”

Dean rolls his head along the seat and looks into the back.

“What happened to your crutches?”

“I threw them on the fire,” Sam says. “I couldn’t carry everything. Figured they’d burn the best.”

“Shouldn’t have carried _me,_ dude.” Dean slumps down further and closes his eyes. “Doc told you not to put weight on it.”

“It’s been a few weeks.”

“Great, so you start walking on it, carefully. You don’t pick up another perfectly capable human being and do the freaking hurdles.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember when you were dying of scalded balls?”

“Your fault.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, fine. What?”

“That won’t actually kill you. Head injuries might.”

Dean sighs. “I’m fine, Sammy.”

“Awesome. So am I,” says Sam.

Dean feels like there’s a logical flaw somewhere there, but he can’t quite put his finger on it, and before he can do much thinking, they’re pulling into the motel parking lot.

Compared to most, this was a pretty clean job. Showering can wait till morning. He gets the worst of the dirt from under his fingernails and staggers to bed.

Sam gets the light. “Night, Dean.”

“Night.”

“I’m gonna wake you up a couple of times.”

“I’m gonna punch you in the face.”

“Head injury.”

“Whatever.”

Sam sighs, long-sufferingly.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“That was pretty awesome.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam sits up. Dean can barely make out his shape in the darkness but he can _hear_ Sam grinning. “I didn’t catch that.”

Dean groans. “Look, just… thanks. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Sam lies back down. “I know how you can _really_ thank me.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Dude.”

Dean laughs.

“You can quit telling people stupid shit about my foot.”

“Fine,” Dean says. “I’ll tell them that my moronic brother managed to hurt himself with a _book._ ‘Cause _that’s_ not embarrassing.”

“Whatever,” Sam says. “It’s better than having to pretend to be your gay lover. Or a war hero. That’s just wrong. I know you had fun, but Dean, please. Can you just stop?”

“Sure.” Dean rolls over and punches his pillow. “Okay. I promise. No more embarrassing stories about your foot. Now shut up and go to sleep.”

 

 

 

The next morning, their diner waitress hardly spares a glance for Sam’s limp, too busy clucking over the huge goose egg on Dean’s temple.

“Good lord, honey, what happened to you?” she says.

Dean lets his biggest, shit-eating grin unfold.

“Didn’t realize how far up the bed I was, until it hit the wall right along with my head,” he says, and winks at Sam.


End file.
